


Where Flowers Bloom and Lions Dare to Tread

by Lann_the_cleverest



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: AU, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Spoilers - A Storm of Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lann_the_cleverest/pseuds/Lann_the_cleverest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post A Storm of Swords, Tyrion decides to go to the Wall.  Once there, he meets a beautiful, dark haired, dark eyed boy with an interest in his continued survival.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Flowers Bloom and Lions Dare to Tread

**Author's Note:**

> So, Tyrion and Satin are quite a rare ship, even though Satin is physically exactly Tyrion's type (dark hair, dark eyes, slim, girlish). People who find this fic and are asking themselves “WHAT?! Tyrion with a boy?” Go and read this bit of meta, if you want explaination to the logic. Satinfromoldtown on Tumblr puts it way more clearly than I could. Tyrion Lannister: Not Necessarily Straight - http://satinfromoldtown.tumblr.com/post/31617675815/tyrion-meta-not-neccessarily-straight
> 
> Though it is an AU, there are spoilers for A Storm of Swords, but there is a twist - Tyrion went to the Wall instead of to the Free Cities. Oh, and Jon was killed by members of the Watch.

They escaped the Wall easily enough – he had taken no vow, after all, and one skinny steward was small enough to smuggle onto the ship he was taking south from Eastwatch.  The steward had persuaded him not to die at the Wall as had been his plan – his punishment for his crimes (his real crimes, against the woman he loved and wed and betrayed, though everyone assumed it was for killing his father and the king – one of which he had not done, the other was no crime) was to live and die a brief, awful life at the Wall followed by blissful death. 

He had forgotten what heat was by the time the steward came to his bed and wrapped lips about his cock.  “You don’t want to die here, my lord,” the lad had purred afterward.  “Let me take you somewhere warm…”  and the beautiful brown eyes and dark curls captivated him.  And so they went from Eastwatch (the Night’s Watch’s main stronghold since the Free Folk had sacked Castle Black in retaliation for Jon Snow’s death), down to the docks, and with a few coins in the right hands, no-one looked as Satin climbed below deck, and no-one found him when the ship was checked before leaving port, bound for Braavos where the catamite said they would both be free to be themselves with no questions asked. 

So now here he was, once more in Tyrion’s bed, as was expected of him.  They lay together by night, and Satin seemed to follow him like a lost puppy during the day, lying across his lap while he read over the scant few books he had ‘acquired’ from Eastwatch, kneeling by his side and pouring his wine as he conversed with the Captain of the ship.  He even went so far as to go and fetch Tyrion’s dinner down to the table from the great steaming stew pot the cook put in the wardroom – to save his stiff, pained legs which had not yet recovered from the freezing conditions at the Wall.

Tyrion was bemused by all of this, and by the enthusiasm with which the beautiful Satin took to lying with him.  He knew the boy had been a whore, but never had he seen one so convincing, save for Shae.  Satin was not Shae, he kept reminding himself.  He would not let that happen again; even the faintest whisper of double-crossing and he would rid himself of anyone.  Satin did not seem like Shae though… when the boy-maid lay with his head in Tyrion’s lap, the lord would from time to time catch him looking with eyes of wonder.  ‘It’s because he’s never seen a dwarf before,’ Tyrion told himself.  But the looks did not dissipate as they travelled together – they intensified.  “Really now,” Tyrion chided him one day, “I am not an animal in a menagerie!”  Satin’s cheeks had pinked in embarrassment to have been caught.  “It’s not that my lord,” he had murmured before slinking off to do the Crone alone only knew what.  Tyrion had not caught him staring for a few days after that, and he found himself missing the doe-brown gaze.  ‘A fantasy,’ he chided himself as he caught the familiar flutterings in his belly at the thought of the boy, ‘he is making himself a fantasy for you.  It is not real.  He does not want you.’

He tried to leave it at that, tried not to feel overjoyed when Satin returned to looking at him as though he were a particularly well presented honey cake, tried to keep telling himself that all Satin did was stewarding and whoring and absolutely not done for any other reason.  It took one night to change all of that…  Tyrion awoke with the dawn’s light in his face through the porthole that let air (and sometimes water) into their cabin.  He was about to stretch and rub his eyes to rid himself of the dazzle of the sun, when he realised his hand was not his own…  There was a weight on it, heavier than a book but less than the tome he had been reading the night before.  He was slightly disturbed to find that his fingers were splayed and could not move of their own accord…  he looked down, and discovered that his hand was entwined with Satin’s, the boy’s slender fingers laced between his thicker ones.  Satin was lying on his side, facing toward the older man; his cheeks rosy and the most curious smile on his face.  Tyrion did not remove his hand; he stayed there, watching the boy, until Satin woke – slowly, slowly the boy’s eyes began to flutter open and he smiled soft and warm at Tyrion, who felt base lust melt away to a deeper desire.  He wanted to be the object of a smile like that more than almost anything.  But then Satin woke proper, and fear flashed across his face to find his hand still wrapped in Tyrion’s.  “Sorry,” he whispered, and jumped out of bed, gathered up his robe and bolted out of the door under the pretence of going to make water.  Tyrion was left baffled, but determined to figure it out.

That night, he drank less, and slipped into bed early, claiming exhaustion.  He closed his eyes and did not sleep, fixing his breathing to something akin to a man at rest.  Soon enough, Satin followed him, climbing naked under the covers, a hot body warming Tyrion’s side.  The boy got himself comfortable, and then after enough silence to check that Tyrion was truly asleep, a soft whisper of a voice came his direction, and Tyrion had to strain his ears to hear the words clearly.  “You nearly caught me this morning,” Satin whispered.  “My dear lord, you are worse than Jon, Mother give him rest.  He slept so lightly I never dared touch him.  I would take Ghost onto my pallet and cling to him instead.  But you… you’re just perfect to hold to in the night.  The night is dark, and full of terrors, but you chase my terrors away don’t you, sweet lord?  You saved me… you saved me…”  Tyrion could not believe what he was hearing, or the way his heart lurched when Satin was open with him; so much more open than he dared be in the day.  He barely dared to breathe as he hoped his sweet boy would speak again.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke…  Satin kissed his fingers and called him a saviour, and then spoke in truth that staggered the lord.  “When we come to Braavos, I won’t leave you, my lord.  Jon told me all about you.  He said they all call you wicked, but you’re just lonely… you won’t need to be lonely any more.  Neither of us will.  I’ll show you how to love me.  You’re so clever, so clever… you’ll understand…  the Seven wouldn’t have brought you to me if we weren’t meant for each other,” he rambled.  Tyrion had never heard anything like it before.  Except he had.  This was how he had spoken to Tysha, those first few nights before they had wed.  Satin was infatuated with him…  and as the boy’s words slowed and slurred and eventually stopped as he fell asleep, Tyrion found himself wondering if perhaps it would be so bad to let the boy love him and care for him.  There had to be a catch, there was always a catch.  But until he found it, lying hand in hand with a boy who adored him and who spoke of him in such awed tones, bodies wrapped together warm in the night, fingers joined tip to tip, a thumb running along the ridge of the other’s hand, warmth coursing through one another until it was difficult to tell where one started and the other ended…  This could be the beginnings of perfection.


End file.
